Pumping. For reasons he didn’t understand at the time, the word made him aware of his body, its different parts and their differing capacities for giving and receiving pleasure.
There was a thing he did in private, with what he called his puppy, a secret thing only he knew about, a thing he’d discovered by accident one day while crawling under I-nelik’s house. Sometimes he’d do this thing while a girl from the neighborhood watched.
She’d caught him doing it in a burned-out car in an empty lot behind the primary school, and swore that she would spread the news unless he bought her a pack of Smarties. He didn’t think he was doing something wrong. He thought it was natural but private, like a bowel movement. So for the same reason that he wouldn’t want to be famous for taking a shit in an old car he went to the shop and bribed her.
After she guzzled the box she confessed that she hadn’t come to the car by accident—that she used it for the same purpose. But before he could start a turf war, she told him they should share it. It was nicer when you did it while someone watched, she said. He asked her how she knew this. She said she used to spy on her neighbor, and when he caught her he asked her to watch. Sometimes he would give her a smalls if she helped him.
“Help him how?”
“Help him fingle it.”
“How much?”
“Fifty cents.”
He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. How could anyone do that? he wondered. Nothing would come between him and his puppy, especially another hand. His puppy was the smoothest place on his body. Why should he surrender the pleasure of touching it? The girl’s neighbor was a fool, he thought. He should charge her. Not the other way around.
“You have money?” she asked.
He told her no.
She would only watch then. She wouldn’t touch.
They met every day that summer, arranging by coded signals the exact time to arrive. Sharing this secret made him feel both powerful and vulnerable, powerful because he knew something that others didn’t know and vulnerable because it took just one person to make everyone know it.
Sylvia made him feel the same way.
He watched her more intently as the night went on, noticed little things about her, that she sucked her tongue, for example, when she was thinking, and cracked her neck when she felt pressured. Sylvia spoke with a subtle lisp, and on her chin was a shallow dimple, the lasting impression of a mother’s kiss. Intellectually, she was her man’s superior, but she mostly restrained herself. Fire saw it in her eyes, the way she pulled the shades down to make his light shine brighter.
“Oh come on, Lewis, Isabel runs away with Tristão because she wants happiness.” They had finished playing poker and were discussing John Updike’s Brazil, which Lewis was reading in paperback. “Why is that unrealistic? Because she is white and he is black? She is rich and he is poor? You can’t judge a novel by real life, Lewis. A novel is its own reality.” Sylvia looked at Claire for support. “She runs away with him at first to rebel against her family—because he’s forbidden, sexually and otherwise—not because she loves him. The love comes later, and that’s what carries the story—the lengths to which they go to preserve this love.” She glanced at the others, then settled on Lewis, who was unimpressed—which upset her. Why couldn’t he understand? Why was he so literal? “You might understand it better if you read The Romance of Tristan and Iseult by Bédier. Brazil is essentially the same story set in modern times.”
“I can’t imagine anyone doing that,” Lewis replied. “Have you ever heard of anyone doing that, Sylvia? Anyone you know?” He looked to Fire for reinforcement. “Why can’t novels be like real life? I don’t think that’s asking too much. I’m sure poor people would run away with rich people. But I don’t see many rich people sitting around waiting for the pauper with a bag of love.” He paused … seemed to remember something. “Well, maybe I’m speaking out of turn, because there’s this guy I went to Wharton with, Marcus Reid, brilliant guy—a shoo-in for senior vice presidency—until he ups and marries a word processor. I couldn’t believe it. He fucked his life in a single stroke.”
Ian sucked his teeth and opened another Guinness.
“How did he ruin his life?” Fire asked. He didn’t know enough about the business world to see the analogy.
“Well, for one, he stopped getting invited to the right places—where he’d meet the right people and make the right connections. His peers, and more importantly his bosses, considered him a loser. In any event, he might have actually preferred to stay away from certain situations, y’know. I’m sure his wife felt awkward whenever she was introduced to the kind of people she normally worked for. Bottom line: it just doesn’t look good.”
The room was silent.
“Is there something wrong with them being in love?” Fire asked.
He was giving Lewis a chance to redeem himself. He didn’t want to think the worst.
“Well, let’s just say I wouldn’t waste my time falling in love with someone like that.”
“So you actually choose who you want to be in love with, just like so?” He snapped his fingers.
“Yes.”
“You’ve never just met somebody and you just felt a spontaneous … almost, well … like … a spark between the both of you?”
“When I was a kid, sure. But I can’t afford to do that now. That kinda love isn’t practical. I have too much at stake.”
Silence fell again. A more intense one.
Ian glared at Lewis. “You’re so fulla shit,” he said quietly. His eyes were bleary and his speech was slurred. He sneered, then smiled, then tried to go back to sneering again but lost his way, inadvertently creating the kind of warped-genius expression perfected on screen by John Malkovich. He tilted his head and drained the bottle at arm’s length, splashing his lips like a toilet seat. “So if Sylvia was an editorial assistant you wouldn’t deal with her?”
“Well … I’m not saying that, but … I mean … maybe I wouldn’t have met her … so I guess I wouldn’t … I don’t know.”
Ian wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned across the table. “What you mean you don’t know?”
“Look, Ian,” snapped Lewis, “Sylvia and I have what we have, and it’s none of your business.”
“Why is it such a big deal to say that you’d be with your woman no matter what kinda work she did?”
“Why is it your concern?”
“Why you cyaah answer?”
“Why is it your concern?”
“But why you cyaah answer, Lewis?”
“Don’t fuck with me, Ian.”
Lewis was pointing at him now, and Ian began to laugh. He glanced at Fire for support. Fire looked at the floor to avoid embarrassing Lewis—but not before showing Ian the sparkle in his eyes. Claire, who had grown accustomed to this kind of catch-up, watched the whole thing in ironic amusement, expecting it to fade any minute. But it continued, gathering volume like a landslide.
Sylvia slammed the book on the table. The men continued to jabber. So she shouted, “Stop. It’s getting out of hand!”
Ian narrowed his eyes. “Sylvia, you’re such a bombo. You don’t see de man don’t love you? Is not you him love—is what you is. Dat don’t bother you?”
Fire kept his head low. He didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want to compound the woman’s embarrassment.
“It’s none of your business, Ian. It’s not your business at all.”
“So hol on. You woulda be with him if he was a transit worker or a manager at a McDonald’s?”
“It’s none of your business. We have what we have and we’re happy.”
“Let’s go, Sylvia,” Lewis said. “I don’t need this shit. And I don’t want these candleholders, either.”
Fire looked up. Sylvia was standing on the other side of the table, her hands on her hips—which seemed wider now but also less erotic since being dusted with political fallout. Mix-up was not a good thing.
“Goodbye,” he said,
extending his hand. “It was nice to have met you. Nice meeting you, Lewis.”
Lewis ignored him. Sylvia held his hand and squeezed it. It felt tight. He let go.
As Sylvia began to walk away, Claire pulled her to the side and they spoke quietly. Lewis said he would meet her in the car.
Ian began to laugh. “Fuck you,” he screamed, pounding his bottle on the table. “You fucking fake, you.”
“I am not a fake,” Sylvia shouted. Claire covered Sylvia’s mouth and tried to calm her.
“Who the fuck talking to you?” Ian replied. “I was talking to Lewis. Ah, throw me corn, me never call no fowl. Let her go, Claire. She think I fraid for her.”
Claire told him to shut up and walked Sylvia downstairs. She came back shortly, unsure of what to say or where to begin.
She turned to Fire. “How can I make a living if he behaves like a shit? He needs to know when to shut his damn mouth. Those candleholders were the only things that sold today. And because of this prick,” she pointed at Ian, “Lewis returned them. Luckily, Sylvia wants them.” She wiped her face with her palms. “So at least we can say we sold something.”
“Fuck Lewis,” Ian muttered. “Fuck Sylvia too.”
Claire sighed.
Ian began to mutter incoherently.
“Go to sleep,” Claire snapped. “Tomorrow we have a date.”
“I not going nowhere with nobody.”
“Yes, you will. Just get some sleep.”
“No way. I’m drunk. I’m sleepy. I’m pissed and … I’m beginning to piss.”
A wet spot spread on his pants.
“He’s not going to make this barbecue tomorrow. I can see that. Fire, why don’t you meet me there?”
Sylvia sat with her body against the car door as they crossed the George Washington Bridge, trying to distance herself as much as she could from Lewis. Her hands, tired from being rolled into fists, rested in her lap. In her mind, she was still in the gallery, the argument was still going on, and she kept hearing the question again. “So if Sylvia was an editorial assistant you wouldn’t deal with her?” What did it mean, she wondered, that he had basically said no? Would she be with Lewis if he were a transit worker or a manager at a McDonald’s? She wasn’t sure. She asked herself if he would be the same person, if he’d be able to hold the same conversations, if he’d be equipped with the same intelligence and have the same values and opinions.
How much of us is what we do?
And who was she?
Was she a writer with a day gig at a magazine or was she a magazine editor who wrote on the side? There was a part of her that said she was whatever paid her bills. At heart, she was a writer though. She knew that. But writers don’t have security … and she needed that. Security was important to her. Which is why she’d never managed to take the time off to finish her novel. Would a writer without money be like a word processor? She looked at Lewis, who thought this meant she wanted to speak.
“Do you know how much money I’ve spent on Ian’s work in the last year?” Lewis asked. He was ready to fight again. He was upset with her for buying the candleholders after he’d returned them. “Close to eighty thousand dollars. If it wasn’t for me he woulda starved to death years ago. And I need to take his shit? Nobody else takes his shit! He should kiss Claire’s ass every chance he gets. She’s the only one in New York who still shows him.”
He glanced at Sylvia. “He needs some cutting down. He punched Victor Aarons—one of the biggest gallery owners in New York—because Victor jokingly called him a ‘fartiste.’ And don’t forget the time he pissed in a bottle of PJ and sent it to a critic who’d given him a bad review. That was years ago, but it still goes to show what kind of person he is. Nobody wants to touch him. I’m one of the few people who supports this little shit, and he tells me, ‘Fuck you.’ Fuck me? Fuck me? Oh, no, fuck him! Fuck him, and fuck anyone who sides with him.”
“Does that include me?”
“Do you side with him?”
“On some things, yes. So what does that mean?”
“It means f—”
“I must have missed that,” she replied, smugly.
“You didn’t miss a thing,” he said through his teeth.
“Oh? Then what did you say, Mr. Cole?”
“I said f—”
“Yes?”
“F … forget about it.”
“That’s what I thought you said.”
“Don’t talk to me like that.”
“I can speak to you any way I please.”
“Delude yourself.”
“In a lot of ways, maybe I have been.”
“What does that mean?”
“I know what it means, that’s all that matters.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing.”
“Here we go—something suddenly becoming nothing.”
“In more ways than one.”
She began to think of Fire. What did he think of her? Had the argument changed his view? She began to feel him now, the lines in his palm, the buds on his tongue—and smell him. His scent was comforting … like a new book … or mown grass after evening rain.
“Lewis,” she began slowly, “if I abandoned you, would you chase after me?”
“What is this? Poetic question hour?”
“Just answer me,” she said. “If I abandoned you, would you chase after me?”
“Look, Sylvia, I don’t want to start another argument with you, and I sense one coming if I don’t say the right thing.”
“You’re avoiding my question. Just like you avoided Ian’s.”
He drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel. What was her problem tonight?
“Sylvia,” he began quietly, “I’m sorry for all this, and I suppose you are too. This is just so … so … it’s just not good. Look at what we’re doing. We’re fighting over a pair of candleholders. A pair of stupid candleholders. You know what? Why should they come between us? Let’s turn around right now and take them back to Claire. They’ll be out of our lives and we’ll be fine again.”
“But I want them.”
“Why?”
“They’re beautiful … and … it’s hard to explain … it sounds so hokey.” She was thinking of Fire’s hair now, how much she wanted to loose her fingers in that palm grove reclaimed by wilderness.
“Go ahead, it’s okay—talk to me.”
“I have this attraction to fire that I can’t explain.”
“You’ve never mentioned this before.”
“I know. I didn’t know it myself until tonight.”
“I see.”
“I don’t know, Lewis. It was just spontaneous, I guess. It just happened like”—she snapped her fingers—“that.”
“Why would anyone be so attracted to something so dangerous?” he asked, suppressing his urge to laugh.
“The warmth. Sometimes a little warmth is worth a burn or two.”
He pretended to understand, and slowly pulled out of the conversation. They rode along in silence for a while, until at some point, without notice, she asked to be taken home. Without uttering a word he swung around and drove her to Brooklyn Heights.
“Are we still going to Diego’s barbecue tomorrow?” he asked. They were parked in front of her building now, a brownstone on a narrow street lined with trees.
“I think we need some space. I need to figure out some things.”
“I guess that means no then. I guess we’re headed for another one of those patented Sylvia withdrawals. That shit is just so tiring. So how long is this one gonna last? You know what? I ain’t even gonna sweat it. See you when I see you.”
“Goodbye, Lewis.”
He watched her till she shut the door. She didn’t look back. He put his seat back, fumed a bit, then drove home to Englewood.
Sylvia took a shower and lay on top of the sheets. It was the quiet time of morning, close to dawn. The windows were open and the breeze was as soft as powdered skin.
> A cinnamon candle, thick and brown, squittered light across the room, dropped some on her belly, where it pooled in her navel and spread down to her pubis, coating the hairs, making them feel like starchy grains of rice when she touched them … as she was doing now. Whirling them between her fingers as she rubbed her belly, which the light had filmed with a glaze that made her skin not amber, but caramel, a murky, sticky dark like molasses. It gave her greater confidence in her sensuousness, made her want to know her body in a new way—the old way really, but with a new curiosity. What would he feel if he touched me?
She got up and turned on the fan, switched it to low, angled it to lick her thighs when she lay down again. She brushed herself with feathered strokes from her forehead to her knees, her fingers spread wide, her wrists held loose to accommodate the changing topography—the dunes of her breasts, the drifts of her ribs, the quicksand yield of her hips.
It was nice to have met you. She felt heavy, waterlogged. She squeezed her thighs. She was ready for release. Leisurely, then urgently, she stroked herself to sleep.
chapter two
She woke up knowing that she’d dreamed about Fire. What, though, she couldn’t recall. But he’d been there. She could feel him in the sweet ache that washed her navel … the phantom pain of something that had filled it … rubbed it … a lubricated pinkie or a tongue perhaps.
Sitting on a side chair, her elbows on her knees, she tried to recall the shadow that the sun had wiped away. Her toes rippled the dhurrie—ruffled it like a sheet on a trysting bed.
Why did he affect her so? She furrowed her brows, setting a trap for the answer. He was handsome, but that wasn’t it … she’d met more striking men. And he wasn’t professional—or didn’t seem to be—which for her was a basic requirement.
Had she ever heard of him?
She had. From Ian. But what, though? There was a rumble in her head, a distant one, as the answer lumbered toward her, coughing and wheezing like an old steam train.
Waiting in Vain Page 4
